The White Canary
by cardemon
Summary: The notorious White Canary, San Fransokyo's leading illegal weapons manufacturer, is thought to be dead – but when the White Canary's weapons begin to resurface at an alarming rate, Tadashi and the gang find themselves in the middle of an underground war where the laws of science and robotics are pushed past their limits and into dangerous territory.


**This story takes place before the events of BH6, and Tadashi is alive and well. And yes, can we just take a moment to address the emotional upheaval we have all experienced after seeing this movie?**

***pterodactyl screeching while dragging at face***

**Please enjoy and review!**

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_The White Canary_

**_Prologue_**

* * *

"_This_ is the place?" one of them sniffed gruffly, looking around in distaste before turning to face his partner. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," his companion replied coolly as he took a spot near the group of trash cans, folding his arms over his suit clad chest.

The first man huffed in annoyance as he lit a cigarette. Meeting their business partner in one of the dodgiest alleyways in downtown San Fransokyo wasn't exactly promising, despite their business being less honourable than most. "So, who is this so called White Canary, anyway?"

His partner shrugged. "Beats me. No one has ever seen his face, though I hear he's the best damned weaponized robotics technician this side of the country. Some even call him the Mad Hatter." He chuckled to himself, however, his partner wasn't too convinced.

He scoffed. "I don't buy it."

His partner just shrugged. "If the Boss is willing to pay what I've heard he's paid, then I wouldn't argue."

Moments later, a figure emerged from the far side of the alleyway, a large metal case clutched in their hand. Both men removed themselves from their relaxed positions against the wall and walked over, the other putting out his cigarette as the distance closed between both parties.

The air was thick with silence before one of the men spoke.

"I trust you have what we paid for?"

The cloaked figure wordlessly set the large metal case down on the ground before them. "Polished and perfect, as requested," the figure rasped, both men instantly picking up on the electronic voice distorter that was clasped around the figure's neck. The larger of the men narrowed his gaze as his eyes flickered from the metal case to the hooded figure and the little blinking light around their throat.

"That case looks awfully light," he commented snidely.

The figure didn't flinch. "You doubt my work?"

"I don't trust you, is what I'm saying. Open the trunk," he ordered sharply with a nod of his chin.

With a swift kick from the hooded figure, the metal case snapped open, the interior lights piercing across the smooth, polished surfaces of the weapons that lay inside the black foam casting.

"Each weapon is made from a newly constructed lightweight carbon infused metal that I've been working on. Practically undetectable—" the figure explained as they moved to pick up the nearest metal gun, turning it over in their hands before pointing it to the stack of trash cans behind the two men. In a flash, a ball of light green plasma sliced through the air and clean through the metal – the only sound being a soft breath of expulsion from the nozzle, "—and powerful."

The figure then tossed the gun to the other man, who fumbled before catching it. The figure kicked the case once more, and the lid snapped shut, the locks automatically clicking into place. "I trust there will be no more objections?"

* * *

"… _And in lighter news, staff and children at San Fransokyo's local orphanage were thrilled today as the mysterious San Fransokyo Donor struck again overnight, leaving thousands in cash at their doorstep, which will provide all of its children with gifts, warm clothes and food just in time for the holiday season. While the mystery donor still hasn't been identified, the staff would like to express their gratitude and—"_

A light scoff came from behind her, and she looked up from her work station to see the television had been turned off, a figure with a mass of brown hair striding over to the small kitchenette at the far end of the apartment.

"I was watching that," she murmured absently, turning back to her work. "And what are you doing here in my kitchen anyway, Toru? I thought you'd left already."

"Looking for food," he deadpanned as he shut the fridge and turned in her direction. "You know, to eat? You should try it sometime, Niabi." He then strode over, tossing a small white envelope on the corner of her desk.

She didn't look up. "What's that?"

"Another order," he answered, picking up a few of the trinkets from her desk and turning them over in his hands. "Seems the underground has become quite find of you as of late."

Niabi hummed feebly in acknowledgement, but didn't say any more as she continued to deconstruct the pile of metal that lay in front of her. Toru glanced over her shoulder before moving his gaze to the handfuls of sheets that she had pinned above her desk; each sheet tacked with a set of rough prototype sketches that were no doubt from the gangs of San Fransokyo's underground.

Toru grimaced; he had never once approved of Niabi's foolish decision to reject college and instead illegally manufacture weapons for San Fransokyo's underground. She could easily be awarded a place in any of the city's top robotics universities – yet she had turned every single one of them away with absolutely no regard.

And while his every attempt to convince his best friend to quit manufacturing weapons had failed, Toru had nonetheless accepted her invitation to stay by her side and help.

"Something the matter, Toru?" she asked, clearly frustrated by his presence.

Toru let out a weary sigh. "I thought you were better than this, Niabi."

"Sorry to disappoint," she quipped coldly. "Now, if you're quite done lecturing me, I'd like you to leave."

"How much longer are you planning to keep this up?" Toru asked, clearly exasperated. "They almost found you last time, Niabi. You need to give this up before you really get hurt."

"They chased me down _once,"_ Niabi replied coolly, still not taking her eyes away from the dissected weapon in front of her. "And besides, they—"

"—they _took_ your _arm,_ Niabi, for heaven's sake!" Toru cried. "They just…" he shuddered as he recalled that night some two months ago. "They just cut it off, and you go on as if nothing had ever happened to you!"

"I fixed it, didn't I?"

Toru let out a cry of frustration. "That's not the point! Do you even _hear_ yourself right now?"

Niabi stood to her feet and brushed past her friend, moving to stop on front of a large whiteboard, equations and formulas scrawled over every part, along with more sketches of prototypes. She picked up a few of the sheets and tossed them aside before grabbing the nearest marker and writing something next to one of the equations.

"Niabi!" he cried. "Are you even listening to me?"

Again, she ignored him, and moved back to her desk. But before she could sit down, Toru roughly grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her to look at him.

"Look at me, Niabi! I'm not going to stand by and watch you get yourself killed. You need to stop this, now, before it gets out of hand."

"Then leave," Niabi shot back, wrenching herself out of his grasp.

Toru followed her as they both neared the cluttered desk. "Don't start with me, Niabi! They got to you once, they took your arm… who's to say that they won't do it again?"

Suddenly, Niabi turned on her heel and snatched a small circular disc from the desk and closed it in her left hand. With a click, tiny metal wires began to crawl out from her fids like spindly claws and embed themselves in the skin around her wrist.

Toru then watched in horror as the target on the wall across the room was painted with smoking craters.

His heart sank. How could such a bright, young girl he'd been friend with all these years and this… this person in front of him ever be the same person?

"They won't get to me a second time," she ground out, hand still outstretched. "I'll make sure of it."


End file.
